


Kokopelli

by augustrain



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad, Breaking Bad & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, I don't even know okay, Kim x Jimmy, Lalo, McWexler, Missing Scene, Secret Relationship, Sex Stuff, WexGood, but also mostly lurrrve, does not rewrite any of Breaking Bad but only fills in missing scenes, king of trash, siempre, soy amigo del cartel, starts in season 3 with flashbacks to season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustrain/pseuds/augustrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The secret life of ABQ's most notorious lawyer"</p><p>Set during the events of Breaking Bad, this is the story of Jimmy McGill,  one-time public defender and con-man turned criminal lawyer, alias Saul Goodman. </p><p>Nobody understood the importance of showmanship better than Jimmy, but even the most seasoned of performers needs to go home at the end of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reservation

 

It wasn't actually the first time that a client had pulled him off of his feet, hauled him over his desk, and thrown him to the floor. But he hadn't expected it from Elmer Fudd-turned-Colonel Kurtz over there, although maybe he should have. Jesus. If anyone had ever needed court-ordered anger management classes, it was Walt. Perhaps adding the words "damp" and "deep" to his description of Skyler's infidelity _had_ been a bit over the line after all. At least Walt hadn't hit him in the face. But still, he'd banged his knee on the corner of the desk while going over, and had fallen on his shoulder funny when he hit the ground. He felt roughed up, and like he needed a scotch and a few hours in a Jacuzzi. Fortunately, he had both of those at home, but it was going to be a long day before he could get back to them.

Once he'd sent Mike to go retrieve the bugs from the White residence and clean up, he'd locked the door and lain down on the plush blue carpet. He wondered what would happen if he just didn't get up; if he just lay there, ignoring the buzzing of Francesca and the increasingly frantic entreaties of the miscreants and hood rats outside.

" _Saul,_ " came Francesca's voice over the intercom. He ignored her. " _Saul._ SAUL."

"Yes, okay, fine, yes," he said, hauling himself to his feet, straightening his jacket and re-clipping his collar pin. He knew that his new drunk-and-disorderly case was waiting, and besides, he had about a hundred more calls to make for the class action suit against the airlines and the airport.

By the time he had finished, Francesca had already gone home, and a deep red sunset had spread itself like jam across the wide open New Mexico sky. There was a hot pink glow along the peaks of the mountains, and streaks of bright gold snaked their way through the raspberry clouds before fading to blue in the darkening east. He had to admit, he _did_ like the colors in this godforsaken place. Even if it was _literally hell_ , as he liked to joke to himself sometimes, it wasn't without its occasional lovely apparition.

He drove his white caddy down the 25 to Paseo Del Norte and hung a left, heading up to the gated community of condominiums near the base of the Sandias that Saul Goodman, Esq. called home. He parked in his own garage and sat for a minute in the dark with only the lights of dashboard lit as the automatic door lowered itself, sealing him in.

"Honey, I'm home," he said softly to himself in the car, and then unbuckled his seat belt. He took out his cell phone, flipped open the display, and dialed a number. It wasn't in his speed dial; was not even listed in his contacts, but he knew the number by heart. No one picked up. He deleted the call from his phone's history, grabbed his files, and went inside to where no one was waiting for him.

The condo was full of windows to take in the beauty of the surrounding mountains, which normally he liked. But tonight, with the sunset gone, it simply made the place feel more glacial and lonely, the mountains dark and threatening in the gloom. He was a city boy, and being near nature at night when he was alone had always made him feel like he was at the bottom of the ocean. Still, he'd picked this place for its privacy, not to mention the locked gate. He loosened his striped tie, took off his suit jacket, and flung it onto the black leather sofa along with his briefcase. His shoulder was hurting even worse now.

"Fuck you, Walter White," he said.

He kicked off his shoes, toed off his lime green socks with the purple flamingos on them, and padded out to the deck to turn on the Jacuzzi.

There was a chill in the air, and a gathering wind was rustling in the dry leaves of the cottonwoods. He stared down at the swirling, bubbling waters of the heating Jacuzzi for a few minutes, a roiling pale green and white in the overhead porch light. Moths fluttered up towards the bulb. There was a red tile Kokopelli inlaid at the bottom of the tub—the "Indian trumpet guy," as he had always called the flute-playing Native American fertility deity, also known as "the trickster," that adorned walls and tee shirts across the Southwest—And, apparently, the bottoms of upmarket condominium Jacuzzis, too. Watching the Indian trumpet man wavering at the bottom of that water gave him a strangely sick feeling, reminding him as it did of his "bottom of the ocean" feeling that he got sometimes. That he had now. He took his cell phone out of his pocket. Dialed a number. Waited. Hung up. Deleted the call. He switched off the Jacuzzi and the light and went back inside.

"Mike," he said when the older man answered on the third ring. He tried not to sound desperate.

"It's done, Saul," Mike said. "What do you want?"

"I ah, I need to ... take a drive," he said.

"So?" Mike answered, the gravelly weariness in his voice all correct and present. "Did something happen to your car?"

"No."

"So take a drive then."

"Mike."

"Yes Saul."

"Come on. You know what I mean. A _drive_."

"You're not scheduled until Friday."

"I know, but, come on. I need it."

"The guy isn't scheduled until Friday, Saul."

"I know, I know, but, like, can't you do it?"

There was a pause. Mike let out a heavy sigh.

"Come _on_ , Mike, it'll take you an hour, an hour and fifteen—tops!—to drive me out there."

"Why can't you just drive yourself out there?"

"You know why."

"This isn't my problem. Have a drink, Saul. Make a phone call."

"I tried the phone. No answer. Please. Come on, Mike."

"Take yourself out to dinner."

"I'm not hungry. I'm ..." he paused, embarrassed. Fuck it. "Homesick," he finished lamely.

"Jesus Christ."

"Mike."

"Saul, we have talked about this. You know I'm not welcome there."

"Look, I know, but... please Mike, just this once. You know I can't take my car."

"I've told you again and again that this thing you've got going on is not a sustainable arrangement."

Saul had filled a rocks glass with ice and was plashing scotch into it.

"I know, but I'm not exactly swimming in options here."

He set the glass down onto a cardboard coaster with his own face on it. His kitchen counter was littered with them. It was also littered with bills from a medical facility that he should probably open, but hadn't been able to bring himself to do it just yet. Fucking vultures. He heard Mike sigh again.

"Come on Mike," he pleaded, trying to sound upbeat. "You of all people know how important this kind of thing is."

"And you want to go now?" Mike asked, sounding angry, but it was the kind of angry that Saul liked to hear from him—the exasperated anger of a man about to agree to do something he didn't want to do.

"I mean, yes, if that works for you. I mean take your time if, you know, you're in the middle of doing something more important."

"Christ you're in a bad way," Mike said. "Sit tight. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

***

Saul lay flat on his back in the back seat of Mike's Crystler Fifth Avenue with a jacket over his face and a few old blankets covering his body, as Mike barreled down the highway. He'd thrown a duffle bag and some dry cleaning on top of him for good measure. Classic country was playing softly on the radio, and he could smell the aroma of fresh pizza wafting from where a large pie sat in the front passenger seat.

"Thank you again!" Saul called from under the jacket, his voice muffled by Italian wool. "I really do owe you one."

Mike didn't answer.

They'd left Albuquerque behind them, passed the racetrack, and seen two giant glowing casino complexes come and go along the highway as well. They were heading north, onto Indian lands. Mike took a left at a sign marked 'Mariposa' and soon left the lights of the highway behind them. Saul felt the car jolt as it ran over the first of several cattle grates in the pavement, and smiled: almost there. He lay very still, hardly daring to breathe.

The car stopped, and he could hear Mike rolling down the window, and a man's voice speaking to him.

"Good evening, sir," said the voice. "Are you a visitor or a resident?"

"Neither," Mike replied blandly but politely. "I've got a pizza delivery for 23 Mariposa."

"Go right ahead," the man said, and they were moving again.

After another minute of driving, Mike stopped the car and put on the parking break. Saul pushed the bags, dry cleaning, jacket and blankets off of himself and sat up, trying to smooth down his hair.

"Another classy arrival," Mike said drly, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror.

"Better than no arrival at all," he replied, and got out of the car. His need was greater than his pride in this moment, and besides, Mike had seen him in worse states.

They were at the foot of a long drive that sloped up towards a small hill with an adobe house perched on it. At the bottom of the drive was an adobe pillar, lit from below, with a silver '23' on it.

"Don't forget your pizza," Mike said, and handed it to him through the window.

"Thanks Mike, really," he said, meaning it. The desert night around him suddenly felt warmer and full of life, and he didn't feel like he was lost at the bottom of anything.

"I've said before, and I'll say it again, that this isn't sustainable," Mike growled, already pulling the car away to turn around.

He smiled sheepishly, and waved, and said nothing, and began to walk up the drive towards the house.

 

The porch light was on and the windows were dark, but the familiar silver Mercedes parked in front let him know the house wasn't empty. He turned a key in the lock and crept inside. He flicked on a light, and put the pizza down on a large wooden table strewn with legal files and yellow notepads. He felt a breeze, and followed it through the dim rooms towards the back of the house where two large French doors stood open, leading onto a back patio and desert garden lit by strings of electric _farolitos_ lanterns. There were cactus and tall sunflowers and sagebrush, and a raised area paved with red stone slabs that offered a view of the nighttime desert under the stars. There was a fire burning in a clay fire pit, and next to it were two Adirondack chairs. In one of the chairs, wrapped in a large blanket the color of sand, her blonde head turned away from him, sat a woman. He crept up softly behind her.

"Hey gorgeous," he said, and the woman gave a startled little scream.

"Jesus! Jimmy!" she said, standing up and clutching the blanket to her chest. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"I brought pizza?"

She sat back down, not smiling, and he went to her, kneeling down on the stones in front of her feet. He felt his knees creak and a stab of pain go through the one he'd knocked against the desk, but he ignored it. She was wearing white pajamas with blue stripes, and her feet were in flip flops. Her toenails were painted pale blue. He put his hands on her knees.

"Jimmy, what are you doing here?" she said. She didn't touch him. "And why are you all ... all ..."

He looked her in the eye.

"Why am I all _what_?"

He knew what she meant. He could have changed, but for some reason he didn't. He hadn't thought to. It had stopped feeling like a costume.

"We talked about this. Saul Goodman doesn't live here," she said coldly.

"Kim," he said, feeling close to tears. He slid his hands up her thighs to her hips and put his head in her lap. He inhaled. "Kim."

"Like, seriously Jimmy. Get up."

"I can't."

"Jimmy."

"Please. The day I've had. I know we weren't supposed to talk until Friday but ... I tried to call and you didn't pick up. Twice. I needed to see you. There's this ... client, and he ..."

"Saul," Kim said, and he pulled his head up sharply to look at her, startled by the use of his other name. "I, Kim Wexler, do not want to hear even a single thing about the clients of the lawyer known as Saul Goodman. Do you understand me? I have made that very, very clear. Did anyone see you?"

"No," he said solemnly. "No one saw me."

She got up, causing him to fall back onto his ass in front of the fire pit. Saul. Jimmy. Whoever he was.

"Watch out," she said, "or you'll get burned."

She went and grabbed another log and placed it in the crackling flames while he clambered to his feet and stood rubbing his painful knees.

"If you want me to go, then I'll go," he said, but as he said it he sat down in her chair and arranged the blanket behind his head as a pillow. Kim sighed. Her face was impassive, emotionless, as she came and sat in his lap. Relief unfurled like a kite inside his chest. She put her arms around his neck and buried her head against his shoulder. He took a breath and exhaled fully for the first time in what felt like days. Weeks maybe. He felt the persona drop.

"Jesus Jimmy," she said, sitting up a little and pulling out his electric green pocket square. "What _is_ this suit? And this tie? Is all this _really_ necessary?"

"Come on," he said, with a tight smile. "Don't tease." He felt defensive of Saul for some reason that he couldn't quite understand.

"I miss Matlock," she said, straight-faced, unknotting and then removing the olive and purple striped tie from around his neck and throwing it unceremoniously to the ground. She unclipped and ditched the collar pin in an equally dismissive fashion. "I mean, this is just embarrassing. You're wearing enough cologne for three people."

"Ha ha," he said dryly, and put his arms around her.

"Sleaze Goodman and the amazing technicolor dream-suit."

"Hey watch it now. Your husband is a snappy dresser and you know it."

Kim sat bolt upright on his lap and looked him in the eye.

"I am _not_ married to Saul Goodman," she said.

"All right, all right, I got it," he said, trying to soothe her, feeling stung.

"Jimmy McGill is the man I married," she said a little sadly. And he felt a stab of sadness too, looking out at the view from the home that Jimmy McGill could never have afforded to give to her.

"I'm like a military wife," she said, "and my husband is missing in action."

"I'm ... sorry Kim. I really am. Things have just ... gotten out of hand and I thought... I don't know what I thought. If you want me to go, I'll go. I can call a cab. It's fine." And he meant it.

But she had already started to unbutton his purple shirt.

"Poor me," she said, unbuckling his belt as he inhaled sharply. "All alone with a strange man who isn't my husband."

"Come on, Kim, please," he said, taking her by the wrists."Don't say that. I hate it when you say that. _I'm_ your husband."

"Jimmy McGill is my husband," she said, her mouth hovering hotly over his, ready to kiss him at last. "Saul Goodman is my dirty little secret."

 


	2. Colorful

His hand went automatically to her breast, deftly undoing one of the buttons on her pajama top and sliding his hand in under the fabric and against her soft, bare skin. She moaned into his mouth.

"I can't help..." he murmured between her increasingly fervent kisses,"...but be, ah, slightly, ah, disturbed by the fact that you're ah..." more kissing, "... _turned on_ at the thought of..." she ran her fingers through his hair, destroying the careful comb over, "...cheating on me." _Why was he even saying this?_

"What?" she said breathily, still kissing him.

"You're turned on by the idea of cheating on me," he said, more clearly this time, wondering why he couldn't just shut up for once. "I'm not sure how I exactly, you know, _feel_ about that."

"Yeah, but only because I'm cheating on you _with you,_ you freaking idiot."

His eyes flickered skyward for a moment. "Riiiight. Okay. Sure."

"You show up at my house, unannounced, looking like Willy Wonka's gangster uncle, and you want to get into this now? Really?"

" _Our_ house, Kim. It's our house." She gave him a look and he put up his hands defensively. "Yours mostly, yes, for the moment, that's true, I totally respect and understand that. But, also, _essentially,_ and in important ways, _also_ mine. Technically. Our marital home, if you will."

"Saul Goodman does not live here," she repeated. "I would never marry _Saul Goodman_."

He knew better than to argue with this.

"Do you want any pizza?"

"No."

"Okay."

"I already ate."

"Okay. Do you want to go in though?"

"Yeah sure."

Getting up from the chair, he winced as a crackle of pain shot through his bruised shoulder. Goddamn Walt. Kim looked at him, concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"I ah ... injured myself today. It's nothing serious."

"Do I want to ask what happened?"

He let out a sigh. "No. Probably not."

She took his hand and led him into the house, to the master bedroom, and turned on the bedside lamp. She looked at him, his half undone purple shirt and unbuckled pants, his thinning hair askew, and that terrible gold watch and pinkie ring. It wasn't just the clothes, or the weight he'd put on, either. He held himself differently than he used to, even now. She laughed.

"What did I do now?" He looked tired and not in the mood to be laughed at.

She stepped up to him and slid her arms around his neck again, pressing her hips against his.

"Why am I still _so_ attracted to you, hmm?"

He grinned, eyebrows raised.

"I honestly have no idea, Kim."

At least she was here, right now, in his arms. Even if this wound up being the last time. Even if she threw him out in the next minute.

"I would never date someone like Saul Goodman."

"I know that." He was backing her towards the bed now, his hands moving over her back and down to her ass. "But what if you met him in a bar one night and you were, like, really drunk?"

"How drunk?"

He untied the cord in her pajama bottoms and they fell to the floor with a rustle.

"Very, _very_ drunk," he said wickedly. He took off his watch and laid it on the bedside table.

"Whose this 'he' you're referring to?" she said.

"Me," he said, pushing her so that she sat back on the mattress in front of him, her face level with his crotch. "If you met _me_ , Saul Goodman, in a bar one night when you were very, _very_ drunk, would you let me fuck you?"

Her eyes widened and she giggled, pulling him down on top of her, fumbling between them to get his zipper down and his pants button unbuttoned. " _Maybe_."

"Oh yeah?" he said, his voice full of dirty, loving amusement. He managed to pull her pajama top up over her head so that she was now completely naked underneath him. "And why's that?"

"Oh you know," she said, casually. "I heard you have a really big cock."

He almost choked on the laugh that escaped him, the kind that goes straight to the core of you. He felt madly in love with her.

"Well, at least you have your priorities straight."

She had him in her hand now and was already trying to guide him where she wanted him. This was familiar territory, but it had been a while. He pulled away a little, teasing her.

"Would you let me give it to you right there in the bar? Like, pull me into the ladies room and let me finger you up against the sink?"

"Oh I don't know," she said, stroking him. "Maybe out in the parking lot in that big white boat of a Cadillac. I'd hitch up my dress and straddle you in the backseat and let you fuck me senseless."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, and then I'd give you a fake number and accidentally forget my thong in your car. And I'd never tell a living soul."

He clasped both her hands in one of his and held them up above her head. With his other hand he guided himself into place, ready. More than ready. "You really know how to sweet talk a guy. You always were a true romantic. Any last words?"

She shook her head.

"Then if you don't mind, I'd like to make love to my wife now." And with that he pushed inside her.

 


	3. In Vino Matrimonium

They had gotten married in Vegas. "On a whim" as Kim would later put it to people who asked—as if that somehow made it any less real; as if being married to Jimmy was an accident she could have avoided if she'd been paying more attention, but didn't. _Oh well._

They'd been drunk, of course. Him especially. But that didn't make it any less legal. It had actually been Kim who'd suggested it. It was spontaneous. But still, she often wondered if Jimmy hadn't in fact planned the whole thing down to the last detail. Besides, either one of them could have offered to get an annulment when they awoke the next day at 1pm in their hotel room and realized what they'd done. But neither of them had. The last thing she could remember from the night before was watching the first rays of the sunrise creep into the room while under the covers Jimmy was ... well.

She'd opened her eyes on their first morning as man and wife to find him already awake, his face just a mere foot from hers on the pillow, looking at her.

"Hi," he said, sounding even raspier than usual, his voice wrecked by tequila. She had a sudden fear that he was about to call her "Mrs. McGill" and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that.  
  
It was like an electric field of emotion was emanating off of him, cocooning them together; as if he'd wrapped her in it while she slept. He'd never looked more tender or more vulnerable. It was almost too much.  
  
"Ouch," she croaked. "My head."

He turned away from her, towards the nightstand, and when he turned back there was a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other.

"For you."

She took them; drank the rest of the water, hoping it would make her mouth feel less disgusting. She realized then that his breath smelled like toothpaste.

So he'd already been up.

"I need..." she ventured.

"Coffee? Food? My undying love and devotion?"

"Yes. All of the above."

He reached over to the nightstand again and this time when he turned back he was holding the room service menu.

"Close your eyes," he said. "And I will read to you."

She let her head fall onto his shoulder and shut her eyes.

"Eh hem," he began. "Breakfast specialties. American Breakfast: Market fresh fruit and berries, eggs any style, choice of bacon, pork or chicken breakfast sausage. Continental breakfast—"

"Just give me pancakes. Extra butter."

"Coming right up!" he said, and reached for the phone to order.

She snuggled back down under the high thread count hotel sheets, but then felt something sharp digging into her back. It was her bra. She was still wearing it, sort of—if unclasped and halfway off under last night's dress counted as "wearing." Jimmy finished ordering and joined her under the covers, turning her onto her side and pulling her against him to spoon.

"Allow me," he said, and helped her disentangle herself from the offending bra. He tossed it onto the floor, and then slid a hand up her skirt.

"Hey, where are my underwear?" she wondered aloud.

He seemed to think for a moment.

"Somewhere ... else, I guess."

"Any ideas where that might be?"

"Ah, no. Sorry."

"Okay."

He snuggled closer and she could feel his erection pressing against her backside through his boxers.

"Aren't you hung over?" she asked with a ragged laugh.

"Yeah. Sorry about him. Mind of his own. Just act like he's not there."

"Rain check? Maybe later."

"Whenever you want. Literally. I'm yours."

She turned back to look him in the eye and there was that emotion again. She felt a wave of it hit her, like a drug suddenly flooding her body with something honeyed and heavy. She kissed him. So be it then. They were doing this: Wexler and McGill, legal partners after all.

"Okay," she said.

"We're good?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said. "All good."


	4. Church and State

He awoke in the blue light of early morning to something being thrown in his face. He batted it away, confused for a moment, fearing the attack of some strangely flimsy animal before realizing that it was in fact his own shirt.

"Rise and shine, counselor," Kim said. "Time to get up."

She was standing in a navy blue silk robe, bleary-eyed, the back of her blonde hair sticking up in a familiar tangle. She picked up his brown wool trousers and tossed those in his direction as well.

"Ow, careful. Belt buckle!" he cautioned.

"Get dressed," she said. "I'll make coffee."

"What, I don't even get a shower?"

She shot him a dangerous look and turned to leave the room.

"Make it quick!" she called. And he would. He wouldn't dare push it. He knew what was at stake.

When he came into the kitchen less than ten minutes later, his hair still wet and dripping into his collar, he found her standing by the coffee maker in yoga pants and a big sweatshirt with the neck cut out, baring one shoulder. Her cornsilk hair was brushed and gathered into a ponytail. He was knotting the tie that he'd retrieved from the back patio, an act that he'd always found rather invigorating, and couldn't help but wink at her. She glared back stonily. He leaned in to kiss her but she ducked her face away and his lips landed on her forehead instead.

"Your suit smells like a middle school dance."

"Well okay then, " he said. He poured himself a cup off coffee. Kim had retreated and was already sipping hers and eyeing him warily from across the counter.

"Nice sweatshirt, by the way, " he said casually. "Will you be my private dancer? Any welding projects planned for later?"

If he hadn't known her face so well, he wouldn't have caught the slight change of musculature around her eyes and jaw, singalling that somewhere, deep down, a smile had been stifled. _Yes_ , he thought. She was staring at his suit.

"I swear, some day you're going to show up here in a powder blue tuxedo shirt and a big 70s mustache, singing _Volare_ ," she quipped.

"What, I'm Tony Clifton now? Hey whatever floats your cruise ship, baby," he said. "Let's fly way up to the clouds, away from the maddening crowds..."

"Jimmy."

"We can sing in the glow, of a star that I know—what?"

"Please stop."

"Where lovers enjoy peace of mind—hey, you're the one that put it in my head!"

"Jimmy, can we get down to brass tacks?"

He beamed at her. The woman of his dreams.

"Yes, of course, absolutely. Always."

"I'm worried."

"Don't be worried. It's church and state, like we agreed. Totally separate."

"Okay. So how many of Saul Goodman's associates know about me?" She put air quotes around his other name. He hated when she did that.

"Nobody! Not one!"

"Jimmy—"

"Well, I mean there's Mike, of course. But that's like, culturally ingrained. A little necessary overlap. Like having 'In God We Trust' on the dollar."

"I thought _I_ was church," Kim said calmly, sipping her coffee.

"Oh, you are. Don't you worry. You are definitely church." He gave her a look that was especially worshipful.

"And?"

"What do you mean, and?"

"Mike, and? Who else knows?"

"Just Mike."

She waited, sipping her coffee patiently, her eyes deadly.

"Mike and ... the driver. I mean of course the _driver_. I thought that went without saying."

"And that's it? That's really it?"

"Yes, that is really, really it. Church and state, like I said. _You're_ the one who said you wanted to keep things separate." He put his coffee down and took a step towards her. " _And,_ you said that you didn't want to know anything about it." He slid his hand across the counter towards her, palm up. "This wasn't how I wanted things to go. You know that."

"I do know."

"But now, honestly, with ... recent developments, I think it's a good thing that Saul Goodman isn't a family man. Let's just call it a blessing in disguise."

She grabbed his hand.

"Why? Jimmy, tell me. Did something happen? Are you in danger?"

"What, me? Danger? No, not at all. Not ... I mean ... you know. I just think it's probably a good idea that you aren't a known associate. But we've, ah, established that."

"I take it back. Fuck church and state. Fuck ... this entire fucking situation. I want to know. Tell me, what are you into?"

"I can't, it's—"

" _Client-attorney privileges,_ " they said together.

"Fuck that," Kim said.

"I can't."

"It's one thing if your clients are breaking the law, but _you_ —"

"I'm not."

But she knew he was lying. She had to.

"So what are you proposing?" she said. "Because this can't go on. I have a practice to think of."

"You have Santa Fe now. Your own city! And we have been _very_ careful for over a year."

"Eighteen months, Jimmy."

"Okay, look. Here's the thing. I've been thinking about it and I think you're right. About the divorce. I'll sign."

There was a stricken pause. The pink and yellow light of the desert dawn was creeping into the kitchen.

"What? Oh _hell_ no. That offer has expired. It's got to be only a matter of time now before I'm called on to testify against you," Kim said.

"For what?!"

"For anything. Everything. _Some_ thing—"

"—Kim, please, you underestimate me—"

" _—and_ I'd have more protection as your wife. Even as your estranged wife, which _is what I am_ , by the way."

He knit his brows and gave her a look of affection that was more frown than smile. A beat. He had to say it.

"Kim, it's not really the courts that I'm worried about here."

Another stricken pause. Her eyes widened in alarm.

"Okay."

"But hey, I mean—hey! No long faces, all right? I'm being overly careful. As a preventative measure. It's not like we'll have to quit seeing each other or anything!"

"Jimmy, that _is_ generally what divorce means, yes."

"Come on," he said. He saw her glance at the clock. They had to get going. "We'll make it look real. I'll even challenge you for custody of Jimmy Jr. and everything. You'll get a big settlement. No measly alimony payments. A lump sum and we're done."

"Commander James Ferraday of Drift Ice Station Zebra is _my_ horse," Kim said "You'd look like an asshole trying to take him."

"Exactly, see? That's the idea. You'll take me to the cleaners. No more Kim and Jimmy. She's done with that loser. _For now_."

"Kim Wexler, who smartly kept her own name, successful lawyer divorcée? Ready to hit the second-chance singles scene?"

"See, there you go! You'll make bank. You can hire another paralegal. It's not like we actually have to _break up._ "

"I don't want your mafia money, Jimmy."

"It's not maf—"

"Anyway we really do need to go."

If only she knew how much of his 'mafia money' he had already spent on her. She downed the rest of her coffee and put the mug in the sink.

 

"Can I at least use the backseat this time?" They were in the driveway and Kim had opened the driver side of the silver Mercedes.

"No."

"Mike lets me use the backseat, and he's, like, Mr. Cautious."

She popped the trunk.

"No."

"Okay fine."

When the choice was between his dignity and keeping Kim happy-or at least, less unhappy-it was his dignity that always seemed to get dealt the losing hand.

 


	5. Amigo

Kim contemplated the pack of Nicorette gum sticking out of the cup holder, thought better of it, and then rummaged one-handed in her purse for her cigarettes. It wasn’t every day that a girl found herself driving down the highway with her estranged husband in the trunk.

Since that weird night in December when he'd come back into her life again, this was only the third or fourth time.

She lit up, keeping the steering wheel steady with her knees. She was going precisely the speed limit, which was slow for New Mexico. In New Mexico, she had noticed, people tend to give you angry looks for anything less than ten miles over. But it was still early enough that few people were out on the road.

She’d been alarmed last night, when she finally took off all of Jimmy’s clothes between rounds one and two of their lovemaking, to see a nasty green and purple bruise on his shoulder and another on his knee. She didn’t want to subject him to more jolts than necessary, but she couldn’t risk being pulled over. It was risky enough as it was. She drove extra slowly over the four cattle grates between her own drive at the Mariposa Bungalows gated community and the turnoff to the 25.

She passed the Santa Ana Pueblo, and then exited right, onto the San Felipe reservation towards the Turquoise Trail. She drove into the Old Town, where crumbling adobe walls and ancient cottonwoods lined the narrow gravel streets, wincing in sympathy with each lurch of the car on the uneven ground. She looked at the clock: six fifteen. A large Spanish church from the 19th century loomed in front of her and she pulled into its parking lot, continuing around to the back. She got out, stamped her cigarette out in the mud with the toe of her rubber boot, and looked around. No one was in sight. She walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Jimmy blinked in the light and then clambered out.

“Ah Christ,” he said, straightening up and trying to stretch his back.

“I have to go,” she said, already wanting another cigarette. He looked at her plaintively.

“I haven’t made you late, have I?”

“No. There’s time.”

“Okay. Thanks Kim. Really.”

They were alone, but still kept their voices at little more than a whisper.

“It’s fine Jimmy. Your phone works? You’ll be okay? You can get a ride?”

“I’ll be fine. So, Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“Say hi to Jimmy Jr. for me.”

“Yeah okay.” The line of her closed mouth stretched into something that was almost a smile, but wasn’t. “See you Friday.”

They both looked around once more to check again that the coast was clear, and then Jimmy leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

He slunk back against the wall of the church as she pulled away. She watched him grow smaller in her rear view mirror as she turned back onto the unpaved road and away from him. She left the Old Town and continued on back roads for another five miles, until she reached the turnout to a set of upscale horse stables set near a tall bank of white and ochre rock formations. A wooden sign stretched over the entrance read _Torres Blancas._ She stopped, entered a code into an electronic keypad, and the gate swung open for her.

A trail extended behind the stables and into the desert hills behind, and there were two arenas, one open and covered, and another, uncovered, with jumps and other obstacles. Hers was the only car in the parking lot. She got out, grabbed a black fleece jacket from the back seat, and zipped it up over her sweatshirt. She then took out an empty black duffle bag and took it with her to the stall of a large bay gelding. On the door was a nameplate that read _Commander James Ferraday_. She hung the empty duffle on a nail by the door.

After she had finished brushing him and refilling his oats, she leaned her forehead against the horse's dark velvety nose and exhaled. She took a carrot out of her purse and fed it to him. Somewhere not far off, a rooster crowed.

“Good morning,” said a voice. Turning, she saw a man walking towards her from the parking lot. He was tall and muscular, with darkly tanned skin and black hair that had gone gray at the temples. He was wearing dark jeans, a burgundy polo shirt, a black blazer, and cowboy boots with pointed toes. He was carrying a large black duffle bag that looked both heavy and full. The man smiled and she did her best to smile back.

“Hi Eduardo,” she said once he’d reached her. He dropped the bag onto the hay-covered ground at her feet, and a small cloud of dust rose up around it at the impact.

“Tell Paige that the matter we were discussing last week has been dealt with,” the man said.

Kim paused. “Okay."

“Have you had any problems?” he asked.

“No,” Kim said, her best lawyer’s poker face all prepared and ready.

“Any trouble with your ex-husband?”

Before she spoke, she did what Jimmy had taught her to: She told herself that it was the truth. If she believed it, then he would. She thought: _last night I had two glasses of wine on the patio and then went to bed alone._

“Nope. No change,” she said.

“Good."

He took the empty black duffle bag that was hanging on the nail and slung it over his shoulder.

"See you next Wednesday," he said. "Hasta luego.”

“Yep. Bye Eduardo.”

“Please, Kimberley, we know each other well enough by now. Call me Lalo.”

“Of course,” she said, thinking _there is nothing strange about this_ and _there is nothing threatening about this man at all_ and _I am not in danger._ She smiled.

“See you, Lalo.”

He winked and sauntered backwards towards the parking lot, his eyes on her.  He got into a waiting pickup truck, and the truck drove off into the hazy blue morning.

Kim lit another cigarette.


	6. Alibi

He waited in the shade of the church, his back resting against the dark red adobe, a pair of still-leafless lilac bushes on either side.. At exactly 6:45 he heard the crunch of dress shoes on gravel.  A young man came walking around the corner wearing a black cassock and white lace vestments, carrying a plastic shopping bag. He thought he could smell pastries. The young man had wet black hair and an open, baby-ish face with bushy eyebrows and round cheeks. Jimmy rolled his shoulders, thinking _Saul_ , and stepped out to meet him with a smile.

“Senior Saul!” the young priest said, smiling. “Good to see you, amigo. You're up early!"

“Father Flores,” he replied jovially, and reached out to shake the young man’s hand. The priest pulled him closer and patted him on the back. “How is your mother?” Saul asked. “Is Pepito feeling any better?”

The priest laughed.

“I can’t believe you remembered! Mother is well. And Pepito is hanging in there, but is perhaps not long for this world.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it,” Saul said gravely. “Arthritis can be brutal for Chihuahuas. But remember, if your vet is scrimping on the pain meds, just let me know, all right? Because I know a guy.” Saul winked and the priest laughed again. “I’m serious! Only the very best for Mrs. Flores’s little Pepito, am I right?”

“True, true,” the priest said. “So what brings you here so early, Senior? Is everything okay with mother’s settlement?”

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine, don’t you worry. Those checks will keep coming—and let me tell you, she deserves every penny! But no, I was actually wondering of Mrs. Sanchez’s son was still dropping her off on Wednesdays to play the organ for morning mass. I had to lend my car to a pueblo client who had an early appointment in Albuquerque, and … well, yada yada, it’s a long story, I can’t say _who_ because I don’t want to embarrass him, confidentiality and all that … but I _do_ need a ride to the casino to meet _another_ client at 8am, who’s just coming off of her night shift, and …” he put his hands out and smiled sheepishly. “I was hoping I could catch a ride?”

“Of course, Senior Saul!” Father Flores said. “I’m sure Matthew would be happy to take you. Please, come in and have some coffee and danish while you wait.”

***

Mrs. Sanchez’s son Matthew dropped him at the San Felipe Casino off the 25, a flat and somewhat drab white building with a gas station next door, it’s retro neon signs still burning but barely visible in the clear morning light. A large banner read _OPEN 24 HOUR._ Cars whizzed by on the highway. Saul took out his cell phone and pressed star four. It started ringing.

“ _It’s showtime_ ,” he muttered to himself.

“What,” said the exasperated female voice who answered.

“Francesca!” He said. “Light of my life! Fire hazard of my—”

“Don’t say it,” she snapped.

“Sorry.”

“I’m not on the clock yet, okay? What do you want.”

“A favor, and it’s a big one, so I’m sorry in advance.”

“Ah Christ. Where are you this time?”

“San Felipe. I had a long night with some ah ladies of the _evening_ here— _clients_ , I might add! Potentially lucrative ones. But hey, it’s not what you think.” It was like he could hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “I didn’t want to drink and drive, so the caddy is actually back at home, so, you know …”

“Whores have stranded you at a casino and you want me to come and pick you up?”

“Well, I mean, if you wanna be _poetic_ about it…”

“Ugh. Fine. But I’m billing you overtime for this.”

“Of course. You’re a queen amongst women, Francesca. The Cleopatra of Bernalillo County.”

“For fuck’s sake, pull yourself together.”

She hung up. He walked over to the gas station, purchased a 50ml bottle of whiskey, and went back out to the parking lot. With as much grace as he could muster, he opened up the bottle and splashed some of the whiskey onto himself like after shave. He threw the rest of the bottle into the trash, and walked over to the casino to wait. He checked his watch: 8:15am.

It was going to be another long day.


	7. Shallow Grave

_NOTE: this chapter has been edited slightly to allow for plot developments of Better Call Saul season 3_

 

_three months prior_

_December 3rd, 2008_

 

It had been a relatively normal day when it all started. This meant it had been a giant pain in his ass, but nothing out of the ordinary: a UNM senior locked up on a DUI; an army vet arrested for getting into a fist fight in the glitter aisle at Hobby Lobby; a man caught masturbating in a Starbucks; another man who broke into his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and bit her dog (“it bit me first yo!”); and some twerp dealing meth. At least he couldn’t complain about a lack of work.

He missed his elderly clients sometimes, but at least as far as _his_ pockets were concerned, crime not only paid, but paid well. Maybe not as well as a fancy white shoe law firm, but enough. _Almost_ enough, although his style of law could get expensive. Besides, this was where all of his skills were most easily and creatively applied. He knew the Albuquerque courthouse in and out. He knew the jailers, the clerks, the stenographers, the security guards, the janitors, and the judges from his PD days.

When he’d started practicing under his trade name after his probation ran out, pursuant to Rule 7.5 of the New Mexico State Bar Association, they’d all been supportive. Oakley had been made chief district attorney by then, and it was relatively easy to get _Saul Goodman and Associates_ sanctioned as operating in compliance with Rule 7.1. He didn’t bother with a legal name change for himself—why should he? His taxes were all in order down to the letter. His real name was in the fine print (the _very_ fine print), and his cronies at the courthouse seemed perfectly happy to look the other way when necessary. But nevertheless he still threw a party when the _Saul Goodman_ paperwork was approved—a “wake” for the lawyer known as James M. McGill, he called it. Everyone had shown up, even _Hamlin_ (“I’d never miss your funeral, Jimmy,” he'd said, a bit too poignantly for his comfort).  But not Kim. (“I told you how I felt about this,” she’d said. “Sorry if I don’t see the humor in an invitation to a _wake_ held in my husband’s name.”) What she didn't say, but he knew she thought, was that after what happened to Chuck, it was in poor taste.

Now, he and Kim had been living apart for fifteen months and legally separated for twelve of them. She’d drawn up divorce papers on three separate occasions. After the first time they were served to him at his office, he’d driven straight to Santa Fe, walked right into Wexler and Associates, and ripped them up in front of her without a word. The second set he’d shredded, put in a jam jar with red heart confetti, and mailed back to her with a note that just said “ _Nope_.” The third set was currently sitting in a safe in his condo along with fifty thousand dollars in cash, a small handgun, a stack of unmarked cassette tapes, an envelope of old photos, and a shoe box containing every Post-it note and obscene paperclip sculpture that Kim had ever given him while working in the mail room at Hamlin Hamlin  & McGill.

The long day had gotten weirder, if still relatively par for the course: a woman who brought a live baby pig into the office; a man asking if he could legally marry a deceased person; and some old guy dressed up as D.B. Cooper who tried to give him ten thousand dollars to throw a case. Finally it was time to lock the door on the constant stream of crazy. He was feeling lonely, and dreading the moment when he’d have to go home by himself to the empty condo with too many windows, so he dialed up his _Saul_ act and flirted with Francesca as they closed up shop to cheer himself up. Besides, he did find her oddly arousing at times, a feeling that seemed to intensify the longer he was away from his wife.

He hadn’t been with anyone since the separation—assuming that didn’t count the occasional lap dance taken in the service of oiling the wheels of justice (his opinion was that it didn’t)—and the abstinence was starting to take its toll. His courthouse buddies had offered to set him up on dates, had encouraged him to go online, to get it out of his system, to start moving on. And he’d been on some of those dates, and lied about hooking up with women, but no one held a candle to Kim. Now, he was going to have to figure out _some_ sort of release valve for his sexual energies or he was going to lose his fucking mind.

He’d resigned himself to another evening of booze and pay-per-view when _bam_ , he was assaulted by two men while getting into his car, and his world changed forever.

***

He’d managed to stay calm all through the drive back to the city from the desert,  sitting in the front passenger seat next to Walt, the driver, while that punk Jesse sat on a cooler in the back and called out questions peppered with the word _bitch_ . He talked with them as if he were in his own movie-set of an office, rather than that rolling meth lab of an RV that he’d thought would be the last thing he ever saw. This was in sharp contrast to his ride _out_ to the desert, which he’d spent hogtied in the back with a hood over his face, sputtering and pleading with them for any information so he could figure out _what the fuck to do_.

He’d been _absolutely fucking terrified_ when they’d dragged him out to that mock grave-site. The entire world had screeched to a pounding, technicolor halt, where he could hear everything, feel everything, and was acutely aware of his own body as a warm and fragile organism, his mind like a light about to be extinguished into nothingness. And he was gripped with terror most of all not for himself, but for Kim, because if this was the Cartel, and Lalo knew …

But it hadn’t been the Cartel, just a few dramatic idiots with no idea what they were doing. Still, in that moment before he realized, when he’d really thought that this was the end, he’d made a deal with the Universe that if he made it out of there alive that he would go to Kim and be whatever it was that she needed him to be; in that moment he could see her and smell her as if she were there, and he swore to himself that he’d get her away from this danger and never deal with criminals again.

Now, as they drove back to the city, and as Walt took them from the kid’s house where they parked the RV back to his own office, he planned to simply placate them long enough to get out. He would pack up Saul Goodman and Associates and never look back. This was too close. Because what if it _had_ been Lalo's men?

He made them sign a form in his office, and shook their hands, and called them “my fine gentlemen,” but once he’d locked the door behind them, he collapsed on his office couch, shaking. He’d driven home, showered, changed out of his desert-damaged suit, and put on jeans, a polo shirt and a jacket that Kim had bought for him. It was 1 a.m., but he didn’t care. He drove out to her house—to _their_ house—and rang the bell again and again until he saw lights turning on in the house. _Please let her be alone, please let her be alone_ , he chanted to himself as he waited. She finally answered the door, wearing pajama bottoms and his University of American Samoa sweatshirt.

“Jimmy,” she said, “what happened?”

He took a breath. Their eyes locked.

“I can’t live without you,” he said, and fell into her arms.


	8. The Promise

"Jimmy, what are you doing here? What happened?"

They were standing in the living room with their arms around each other. She could smell the December air on his shirt and jacket, the desert night that he'd brought inside with him. The feel of his body against hers was so familiar, and yet it had been so long. His breath, his heat, his heartbeat. She thought she probably should have pushed away from him, to get out of his arms before anything escalated, but it simply felt so good to see him that she couldn't bring herself to do it. The seconds ticked by and she could feel his body warming against her. _This is what the top of the slippery slope feels like_ , she thought.

"Nothing happened," he told her. "I just missed you."

"It's two in the morning." She knew she should be angry, but somehow wasn't. Instead she simply felt relieved.

"I know. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I know it's all my fault." He wasn't sure he believed that this was strictly true, but he needed her to let him in, to listen. The truth of that need seemed more important than the details. He started to cry, which shook her out of the stupor of his embrace for a moment.

"Hey, come on now," she said, and went a little steely. "Have you been drinking?"

He stepped back.

"Hand to God, I have not," he said. "I've never been more sober."

"So, what then? You just missed me all of a sudden?"

He didn't skip a beat.

"I have missed you every single day. I've been a fool. Can we talk?"

"What, now? In the middle of the night?"

"Er, yes?"

"I'm not awake enough to have a serious conversation with you right now, Jimmy."

"Then just listen. And if you forget it all in the morning, I'll tell you again and I'll keep on telling you as long as you'll let me."

She'd sworn to herself that she would never listen to him again; that she was done letting him make excuses for himself; done with wanting to believe them.

"Fine, but let me make some tea first."

 

They sat on the couch, not touching at first. Jimmy started to try and explain himself. He said nothing of the masked men or the desert or being in any danger, but said instead that he'd been thinking, and that she was right: he needed to leave the "colorful" practice of Saul Goodman behind him.

"I'm sorry, it's just—" he reached out towards where she sat with her knees hugged against her chest. "Can you move closer? Just a little?"

"Jimmy—"

"Please, just—come on, sit here." He patted the cushion next to him. "It'll be easier for me to talk that way."

She scooted closer and he took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. A feeling of warmth flooded through both of them. Kim felt her heart rate increase. _Damnit_.

"Oh, Kim," he said.

He put his arm around her and pulled her gently against him so that her head came to rest on his shoulder. He told her that he needed a few months to get things in order and tie up existing cases, but that after that he would be done. He'd play it straight, totally by the rules, and would stop doing criminal law. No more shady associates. No more ads. None of it.

"Jimmy, I've heard this before."

"Kim, I swear, I've gotten it out of my system. I mean it this time. And besides, it's not worth losing you."

He put both of his arms around her and she reciprocated, and then Jimmy leaned them both back down onto the couch so that they lay in each other's arms. He instinctually parted her legs with his knee so that their bodies fit more closely together.

"Jimmy, I don't—"

"I'm not looking for sex. I won't rush you."

She laughed. "So confident," she said.

"I mean it," he said. "I just want to hold you."

He tangled his hand in her hair and told her that he knew he was out of chances. That she did not owe him another chance. That he didn't deserve it.  That from the moment they'd met he knew that she was the woman for him and in sixteen years nothing had changed about that. He had started to run his hands over her body gently, nudging her nose with his nose, letting his lips come close to her lips without touching them.

"Don't think I don't see through you," she said. "Coming here in your Jimmy McGill clothes. Sweet talking me."

He planted a soft kiss at the juncture of her jawline and her ear, and then on her cheek, and then at the corner of her mouth. He ran his hands over the front of her sweatshirt ( _his_ sweatshirt) and felt her nipples harden under the swirling strokes of his hands. She arched her back. Without being entirely aware of what she was doing she reached down and ran her hand over the front of his jeans, feeling for his erection. She was not disappointed. She felt that slippery slope sliding away from under her.

"Can I stay over?" he asked.

"Just this once," she said. He made a sound that was part groan, part growl, and then picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.

 

 

 

 


End file.
